Autograph...

Well, he had to find out sooner or later...



4 am last night and there's a loud and frantic knocking at the door. I stumble down in my mules and kimono to find none other than Bryan Ferry on my doorstep, trembling with rage. "Was tha ken thas doon?" He yells, before I can say "we are flying down to Rio". Grabbing me by the silk lapels and pushing me up against the vestibule wall - no doubt laddering a thermal knitwear hold-up on the dado rail in the process, I shouldn't wonder, he rants on, "Tha's gan tealeafed wor contract, modeling wor Autograph catalogue from reet under wor nose - wha's tha playin' at, man??" He grizzles, clearly worse for wear and tear after a crate of two too many Newcastle Browns. "That Catalogue were wor pride and joy, like. What's wor game, usurpin' us like tha - stealin' wor scran from wor mouths of poor me wee bairns. Why man, how d'yer expect us to feed Otis, Liberace, Thelonius, Ezekiel, Dexedrine, Gandolf, Rigor Mortis, Daphne and wor Jackie, though but???"



What can I say? Fashions change, time moves on; a rolling stone gathers no moss. One day you're the Duke of Earl, the next you're the Duke of Edinburgh. Life's cruel like that. Stand still for





L.U.V. on y'all,



Once was Bob

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